


And Many More

by demonologistindenim



Series: The Actual Canon [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birthday, Dean Winchester Deserves Better, Food Porn, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28935438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonologistindenim/pseuds/demonologistindenim
Summary: Dean Winchester is celebrating his 42nd birthday, surrounded by family and friends, the last fifteen years with their multitude of losses and world-ending scenarios blown out with the candles on his birthday pie. A post-finale canon-divergent fluff fic posted in honor of the birthday Dean Winchester was denied by the canon.
Series: The Actual Canon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144304
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	And Many More

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after [The Road Ahead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28157232/chapters/68994330), and is only canon-divergent if you accept 15x20 Carry On as canon, which I do not. I just can’t. You don’t need to read The Road Ahead first – only know that the series finale ended with everything being happily resolved, and many fan-favorites returned to work alongside the Winchesters in building a better world.

Dean Winchester’s 42nd birthday is his happiest birthday since he was 4 years old.

There are decorations everywhere. Twisted crepe paper streamers looping through the corridors. Paper lanterns and twirling strings of plastic stars hanging from the ceiling, bobbing gleefully every time a certain moose of a brother forgets to duck through a doorway. Fringed ribbons draped over the banister in the control room. Bouquets of balloons gathered around columns, and in what used to be the library and is now the common room of the new Mother Mary’s Home for Wayward Sons & Daughters hangs a giant, black banner in chalkboard style script: _Celebrating Dean Winchester_. And underneath that in smaller lettering: _The man. The myth. The legend._ Dean turns a bright shade of embarrassment when Sam and Eileen unfurl it and hang it up overhead. But he doesn’t tell his brother to take it down.

Because Dean has decided he is going to enjoy the hell out of this birthday, embarrassment be damned.

The common room is the perfect place for the party. Months ago, they moved the shelves and books into the newly established library, in what had been the otherwise vacant work room in the bunker. Now the room is occupied by comfy couches and groupings of chairs around low tables, an open space which encourages conversation and collaboration, and invites in all the new members of their family and growing organization. There’s normally a response team at the bunker at all times now, night and day, working cases and such. But Sam’s redirected all of that to a secondary location for the weekend, to make room for the party.

While Sam and Eileen decorate what seems like the whole of the bunker, Castiel designates himself the official room arranger. He moves furniture around to make space for a cocktail bar in the corner, shoves tables together, sets up trash and recycling bins in convenient, unobtrusive places. “This will be the table where the food goes,” he instructs no one in particular. “And this table is for the gifts.”

“I doubt we’re going to need an entire table for gifts, Cas.” Dean chuckles.

The former angel doesn’t respond, just looks at him like Dean has no idea what he’s talking about.

While Sam, Eileen and Cas are hard at work decorating the common room, Crowley is in the kitchen. Dean walked in this morning to find every conceivable surface covered in brown grocery bags. On the counter and the table and even on the floor, full of food and party supplies. Crates of seltzer and soda, coolers of beer, and a for-real 50 pound sack of flour leaning up against one wall.

The fridge is already outfitted to feed an army. Party platters are half constructed, fillings finished and just waiting to be wrapped in pastry and dropped into the deep fryer. A multitude of cocktail mixes, all homemade with the finest ingredients, line the fridge shelves in capped mason jars. A pan of pulled pork marinates to perfection. On the counter, a crockpot of beer cheese bubbles away. The Winchesters are under strict orders to get takeout tonight, and not go rummaging around in Crowley’s carefully prepared delicatessen of delights. In anticipation that the others, Dean especially, would find it difficult not to resist trying a bite, the former demon has set up a stool near the door, on which is perched a platter where he leaves samples. A small index card in the middle reads: _The only finger food in here that won’t cost you a finger._ Dean and Sam spend a good part of the day in an unspoken competition with each other, coming up with reasons to sneak off from the party preparations to snatch each new nom on the platter before the other can get there.

Crowley is wearing his King of the Kitchen apron over his now-usual attire, grey long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans, sleeves rolled up and arms dusted in flour as he kneads dough for homemade pretzels. He hums old country and union songs to himself, minces fresh-fried bacon, halves blood-red cherries, gently simmers a vanilla bourbon concoction on the stove, pours endless cups of water from a massive cast-iron kettle for tea, and casts a warning glance at anyone who wanders into “his kitchen”.

“Sam invited a hell of a lot of people,” Dean can’t help but tease Crowley as he snatches a jalapeno-popper inspired pig-in-a-blanket. The demon-turned-demonologist continues to do a fair job of pretending like he still couldn’t care less about the people around him, but his contributions to the cause and things like this party always prove otherwise. “You sure we’re going to have enough food for everyone?”

“Bloody hell, I’d only planned on making enough to feed your gluttonous arse. Best get busy scrapping together something for everyone else.” Crowley always does know how to give it right back to him.

There were invitations sent out. Digital invitations designed to look just like the banner hanging in the common room, next to a candid shot of Dean smiling. It played the opening cords of Foghat’s Slow Ride when opened in an email or text. That was all Eileen’s doing. Dean didn’t know anything about any of it until now, feels a little silly that his party is turning into a whole big thing. Apparently friends of his from all over the supernatural community have had the date marked on their calendar for weeks. She just gives him a squeeze, says people are happy to celebrate with him. “And, you know,” she smiles cheekily and shrugs, “free beer.”

Those that can’t attend, either because they’re working a case or helping a family or have a lot going on, are all calling in to wish him well. Becky gabs his ear off for nearly half an hour. Kevin is starting his second semester at Princeton, and though Dean would never admit it, he enjoys listening to the kid excitedly recite the syllabuses of all the classes he has lined up for the spring. There’s a video call with Jesse and Cesar Cuevas, working a case down in Cabo San Lucas, who raise salt-rimmed margaritas and drink to his health. Cole skypes in briefly, with his son bouncing up and down on the couch behind him. The little boy insists on telling Dean a birthday joke. “Why didn’t the teddy bear want cake on his birthday?”

“I don’t know, why?” Dean plays along.

“Because he was stuffed!”

When there’s nothing left to prepare except the inevitable list of last minute tasks that will have to wait till tomorrow, Dean and Sam hop into the Impala and drive into town for burgers. Metallica blares, Dean drums the wheel, and Sam makes a considerable effort to join in belting out the lyrics. It’s like old times, except it’s nothing like old times because there’s no end of the world looming and everyone is safe and Dean is happy. It’s like old times except the best possible version of that, Dean thinks.

While they’re gone, Cas and Eileen gear up the big screen in the Cave of Deanitude, set out bowls of popcorn and mac n’ cheese balls, queue up the campiest of horror flicks. The proud fast food hunters return with their bounty – double bacon cheese burgers and chili dogs and tater tots and a bag of onion rings so big, Dean carries it in under his arm like a prize he’s won at a carnival.

The evening is filled with laughter, with popcorn thrown at the television, with moments that will become the best of Dean’s memories. Eileen is crowned champion after successfully tossing over a dozen tater tots across the couch into Sam’s mouth. Cas barely critiques the historical inaccuracies of _Young Frankenstein_. Crowley shares a long, impossible story about an evening that resulted in Boris Yeltsin hailing a cab outside the White House in his underwear while in search of pizza, a story which causes them all to roll with laughter until they’re near tears.

Around midnight, they drag Dean outside. It’s cold, being January, but there’s no snow on the ground. Just a few flurries drifting through the air. Sam jogs off down the road, the glow of his cellphone disappearing into the darkness.

He returns a few minutes later, a tarp rolled up under one arm. Passes Dean a remote control with a big red button. “Charlie rigged this up. She promised the show would be big enough all of Lebanon will see it.”

Dean grins like a little kid, giddy with anticipation. The five of them huddle together against the cold, staring up into the sky, and Dean slams his thumb down on the button.

The night explodes in a barrage of color and light. There are comet fireworks and strobe fireworks, and the kind that explode in balls of flame and then scatter down like the limbs of weeping willows. There are big bursts and little pops that dance through the sky, huge fans that spread out in ever-widening fingers, and fireworks that boom so loudly that Dean can feel it in his chest. Twinkling glitter dots the blackness above, until at last it fades away, and a solid feeling of fulfillment and sleepiness settles over all of them.

This night, when Dean can’t sleep, it isn’t because of the nightmares. It isn’t the memories of loss and death that keep him awake. It’s anticipation for tomorrow. It’s happiness.

In the morning, still in his pajamas and robe, Dean wanders into the kitchen to find the grocery bags cleared away and all the preparations for the day moved to the island counter. The table is laden with pecan-studded cinnamon rolls, mounds of fresh strawberries and blueberries, platters of avocado slices sprinkled with paprika awaiting perfectly poached eggs. Crocks of warm butter and pitchers of thick maple syrup. The heady aroma of coffee drifts through the room. Crowley is once again in his apron, flipping flapjacks on the stove.

“Morning, Squirrel. You all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, or can I get you a cup of coffee to start the day?”

Dean gladly accepts the cup of coffee. He makes appreciative sounds about all the dishes in preparation, sneaks a cinnamon roll before the others wander in, inquires about the possibility of bacon. Crowley gives him a look that clearly says “don’t be more of a moron than you already are,” and proceeds to remove an entire tray of bacon strips from where it was being kept warm in the oven.

Rowena sashays in, utterly unannounced and completely at home. She gives Dean’s cheek a pinch – both on his face and when he turns to refill his mug on his ass as well, much to his disgruntlement – and makes herself a cuppa tea. And as soon as Crowley’s done setting the last plate of flapjacks on the table and dishing the poached eggs onto the platter as all the others are wandering in, Rowena places a hand on her son’s shoulder and firmly pushes him into a seat. In her other hand is a freshly made cup of tea, meant for him. “You’ve done a fine job, Fergus. Now sit down and eat something.”

It’s everything Dean could have ever wanted for a birthday breakfast, at least as the grown man he is now. As a child burdened with adult responsibilities, when he’d wake on his birthday, he’d lay there with his eyes screwed shut, pretending – hoping – that when he finally opened them, he’d be staring at the brightly painted walls of his own bedroom, rather than yet another oddly decorated motel room. He’d imagine popping up out of bed, running down the stairs in pajamas patterned in trucks or dinosaurs, towards the commotion in the kitchen. And there would be his mom, looking radiant and happy and alive. She’d pull him into her arms and hold him close, brush his hair, kiss the top of his head. There’d be a plate of pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse, with raisins for eyes and a strip of bacon for the smile. “Eat up,” she’d say, “so you can go outside and play. It’s you’re birthday, after all!”

Dean now treasures that half-remembered, half-concocted childhood memory for what it is – the past. And appreciates everything the present has to offer him.

Because the present gifts him with Sam, waving his fork at his brother, telling Dean he’s going to make himself sick eating that many pancakes. It gifts him Eileen, not even trying to be coy about shoveling fruit onto his plate and stealing a strip of bacon while she’s at it. Cas, who’s curled himself around his own cup of tea, breathing in the steam and wishing for a quieter morning, just the two of them. Crowley and Rowena, their snark and bickering tinted with still-uncertain affection, their harsh words undone by their actions as they refilled each other’s cups and pass plates and look after one another and the others with a dismissive, desperate love. It’s gifted him with a family.

Dean offers to help clear the table and clean up, but they wave him away. No chores for the birthday boy. Dean’s not about to argue with that.

Before he even knows what’s happening, people start to arrive. Rowena proclaims herself the official greeter, fluttering up and down the stairs to grant access to guests. They arrive alone and in pairs and in entire carloads. Arms laden with beer and bags of chips and brightly wrapped packages. A pair of hunters precariously hoist a keg down the stairs, another following wrapped up in hoses and a funnel on his head. Among the hunters and supernatural scholars are members of the newly established response teams who live nearby, and even some Lebanon locals. Some of the guests have driven halfway across the country to be here.

There’s Charlie, who’s already done her part with the fireworks, but clearly isn’t finished. Speakers and DJ equipment and a RadioShack worth of cables arrive with her. Benny is behind the cocktail bar, mixing glasses of beerade, brandy alexanders, hot toddies, and his special old fashioned. It’s not long before Garth joins the vampire, proving he’s got the wrist action for the perfect shaken cocktail, and introduces everyone to glow-in-the-dark galaxy magic mules. Donna disappears to help Crowley in the kitchen. Sam is lining up the classic rock for a little background music. Eileen gives Kaia and Patience a tour of the Men of Letters artifacts aligning the walls. It isn’t long before Ben and Claire sneak off to investigate the garage, with all the classic cars and motorcycles. Alex asks for pen and paper, and gets into an in-depth discussion with a vet tech-in-training about the physiology of hellhounds. Meg pretends to make herself helpful, winks when Dean catches her pouring something from a flask into the punch bowl. Cas, having grown increasing comfortable at parties over the last few months, makes an effort to mingle. Jody stays close and keeps him from bungling it too badly.

Dean collapses into one of the plump armchairs, sips at an old fashioned with an orbital ice cube rattling gently against the glass, and enjoys the party.

At some point or another, everyone makes their way over to wish him a happy birthday, to share the day with him, slap him on the back, tease about his hair beginning to grey, tell him how grateful they are for the time he did them this favor or saved their lives or were there when they needed someone. Dean doesn’t need all the packages waiting on the gift table. This is the best birthday present he could have ever asked for – so many of the people he considers his friends and family, safe and smiling.

“Happy birthday, Dean!”

“Dude, you _gotta_ open my present first! You’re gonna love it!”

“Hey, old man. Your knees know if it’s going to snow tomorrow or not?”

“You gotta tell everyone the story about the time you worked that costume party case, and had to dress up and fight like Batman. I can’t do it justice.”

Across the room, Sam leans against one of the columns, beer in hand. He smiles, tips the beer at his brother before raising it to take a sip. _You deserve this_ , Sam’s look says. _You deserve to be happy_.

Just when Dean thinks the party has reached its crescendo, Crowley begins carrying in the food. There are slow-cooked bourbon meatballs, and jalapeno and cream cheese wrapped pigs in a blanket, and battered cauliflower bites drizzled in sriracha honey sauce. There are sour cream and chive devilled eggs, and pulled pork sliders with homemade pickles and beer cheese, and loaded potato skins. Sweet custard buns, and baked feta with olives and baguettes slices for scooping, and crispy green beans with a spicy mayo dip. Raw edible cookie dough on graham crackers. French toast cubes with maple dip. Baby blooming onions, deep-fried to a golden perfection. Coconut shrimp skewers, forkfuls of individually-portioned fried chicken and waffles, and mini raspberry cheesecakes. Deep-fried puff pastries stuffed with artichoke dip, lapsong souchong smoked tofu and cabbage egg rolls, cucumber and herbed goat cheese tea sandwiches, and blueberry lemon tartlets. Buttery beer pretzels, bulbous scotch eggs, and succulent molasses-slathered steak sandwiches on marbled rye. A fry board covered in curly fries and crinkle fries and sweet potato fries and waffle fries, with small bowls of ranch dressing and horseradish sauce and queso and honey mustard and homemade ketchup and garlic mayo and the bbq sauce from Dean’s favorite road-side joint, three states away. And an entire table taken up by a nacho bar. A massive hotpot of cheddar cheese bumbles away in the center, just waiting to be ladled over Donna’s signature pico de gallo and Garth’s “get yourself somma’this” guacamole on perfectly golden corn chips.

Dean is torn between enjoying himself to the fullest and practicing a little moderation. What the hell, it’s his birthday, after all.

Someone breaks out a party game. Normally, Dean’s not really keen on party games. But this time feels different. Maybe it’s because he’s had two galaxy magic mules, or because it’s only a few people playing and everyone else enjoying the show, or because Cas wants them to partner up. Whatever it is, Dean eventually relents to one round. Around the table, his friends laugh and cheer, placing a few bets here and there. The others wander around, fill drinks, snack of even more food, and attempt to sneak peeks at player’s cards.

“Okay,” Sam says, reading over the list of words he can’t say. “This is one of the places we’ve talked about one day wanting to visit – ”

“Prague. Thailand. Istanbul – “ Eileen rattles off excitedly.

“ – they lost a war with emus – “

“ _Australia_!”

“Hey, hey, no fair!” Dean and half the other people in the room shout, groaning and laughing and shaking their heads. “I saw that! No signing! Hands flat on the table, you two! Or better yet, someone get a signing referee over here.”

Castiel, it turns out, is terrible at the game. Which is completely unexpected, because in board games involving managing resources, it always seems like Crowley is going to own the table only for Cas to deliver a surprise, straight-faced win out of left field. Of all games, Dean had assumed he and Cas would absolutely destroy their opponents in one involving indirect communication. But the former angel seems stymied by all the words he is not allowed to say. Dean is a little relieved when Cas graciously relinquishes his place on the team to an eager Garth.

The scrawny dentist rules the cards.

“We threw a wendigo in one – “

“Bonfire.”

“Crowley used too much of this in the stuffed mushrooms – “

“Rosemary.”

“ _I most certainly did not!_ ” from the back of the crowd.

“Magical mare, not as nice as everyone thinks they – “

“Unicorn!”

It’s only as the game comes to an end, with plenty of cheering among the spectators and groaning from those who lost bets, that Dean realizes both Sam and Cas have disappeared. They reappear a few minutes later, with Benny and Cas carrying a massive, rectangular box between them. Without needing to be asked, others move tables and chairs out of the way, clearing a space in the back of the common room.

“What’s all this?” Dean asks, but Meg sidles over, pushes a glass of something sweet and alcoholic into his hand, and leads him away.

In the control room, Charlie has set up a karaoke machine and rigged the hologram table like a choreographed Vegas lightshow. Someone toggles down the bunker lights. On the large, inlaid screens normally used for tracking cases, the first lyrics of The Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling” begin to scroll. Dean chooses just to clap along at first, enjoying watching others strut their stuff. Then he and Ben belt out a rendition of “Eye of the Tiger”, Meg surprises everyone with “Royals,” and Jody and Donna steal the show with the Indigo Girls’ “Closer I Am To Fine.” There are a couple rounds of “I Will Survive” and “Happy” and even “Let It Go” before the microphone comes back around to Dean. Accompanied by Cas’ whistling and Sam’s finger snaps, he and Crowley regale the room with “In Hell I’ll Be In Good Company”, and then lead the entire party in a rousing round of “Wellerman.”

Dean finally relinquishes the microphone when Sam tugs on his sleeve and draws him back into the common room. At the far end now sits a pool table. The wood is a dark finished pine in a rustic style with dovetail joints. The felt is a rich forest green, glossy and new. The balls sit racked up at one end, a row of pool cues hangs on a nearby wall. A big red bow perches on the edge of the table.

Dean let’s his hand trail along the wood, raises his eyes to Sam. “This is for _me_?”

After that, there is a cascade of presents. Some come colorfully wrapped or stuffed into bags bursting with tissue paper, some in envelopes containing gift cards to his favorite places in town. Some of the gifts are personal, and some just for fun. There is a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Dr. Sexy, which Dean will later use as a clothes rack. Bacon-patterned socks with bottoms that read _If You Can Read This_ and _Bring Me Some Bacon_. A mini battleax beer opener.

Charlie’s present is a real drinking horn, made by one of her LARPer artisans. Benny gives Dean a perfect catch penknife for fishing trips. Jody’s girls get his a clear plastic puzzle box that contains Dean’s favorite childhood candy bar. He has to solve the puzzle to get the chocolate. “That will keep him busy for a while,” Donna whispers to the room. Garth gift him bacon-flavored mouth wash. Crowley presents front row seats and tickets to a private meet-and-greet at the next Rolling Stones concert. Meg hands over a card with a picture of a squirrel wearing a party hat. Inside, she’s written: _one free “get out of trouble by blaming it on the demon.”_ Dean sticks it in his pocket for safe keeping.

Rowena asserts that she’s already gifted him with her presence at his party, but then slips him a book of sex positions, and whispers salaciously into his ear “Fifth base, boy-o.”

There’s a small box from Claire. Nestled inside is a bi pride flag button. The present from Cas rattles slightly. Dean opens it to find a mixed tape in a clear plastic case. “It’s all my favorite ramblin’ songs,” Cas says, adding an accent on the word ‘rambling’ and looking rather proud of himself. “For long car rides.” It one of the best presents Dean’s ever received.

Someone snaps a picture. And then everyone is piling in and taking photos with the birthday boy. “Next year, we’ll get one of those photo booths.” Sam says.

“To hell with that,” Dean replies. “Next year, we’re getting a bouncy castle, and a cotton candy machine, and a donkey!”

(Eileen will put her foot down and there won’t be a donkey. Not till Dean’s 50th birthday party, anyway. By then, he will have forgotten about it, and it will make a wonderful surprise. The little burro comes with a saddle from which hangs bottles of tequila, and wears a woven sombrero, and is named Bluebell, and very much enjoys eating gingersnaps out of Dean’s hand.)

The big finale of this particular birthday is the arrival of the pies. Fresh-baked, buttery golden crusts, still warm from the oven. There is wild ginger strawberry pie and pistachio coconut cream pie, sour cherry pie and lemon blueberry pie. Paprika peach pie, black currant and lemon chiffon pie, salted caramel apple pie, a bourbon pear crumble, concord grape pie and maple buttermilk custard pie. A brown butter pumpkin pie, a buttered rum cream pie, a malted chocolate pecan pie, an apricot almond galette, and last but not least, a lattice-topped triple berry pie.

Everyone gathers round, jostling each other, laughing. Plates and forks are passed around, drinks refilled. Then Sam shoves Dean to the center, calls for quiet. Crowley sticks five candles in the crust of the berry pie, one for every decade Dean has been alive. “And one to grow on,” the former demon adds with a smirk that just might actually be a smile. They sing “Happy Birthday,” – _haaaappy biiirthday day to yooooouuu…and many more!_ – loudly and enthusiastically and not even remotely on key. And for the first time since he was 4 years old, Dean loves every moment of it.

The song comes to the end, and with his friends and family gathered around him, Dean takes a deep breath, and blows out the candles.

**Author's Note:**

> It goes without saying that Dean Winchester deserved better. January 24th is Dean’s birthday, and in 2021 – the birthday just after the series finale – he would have turned 42. Poor storytelling and a lack of appreciation for what Supernatural was all about meant Dean wasn’t given the chance to see this birthday. Having already “fixed” the season finale in The Road Ahead, I couldn’t let this stand. Dean deserved to live, he deserved to be happy, and he deserved this birthday party. This was my small attempt to give him all of that.
> 
> Oh, that story Crowley tells about Boris Yeltsin – that actually happened. Apparently he and Bill Clinton had quite the bromance of their own, though it’s unclear what shenanigans happened that night that resulted in that particular incident. Australia’s war with emus was also a real thing. And thankfully, so is Bluebell.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. Kudos and comments greatly appreciated.


End file.
